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Chris Brown & Rihanna: Stomp The Yardie

[Blogger’s Note: I know Rihanna’s from Barbados. It was really the best I could do.]

I told y’all back in 2006, something warn’t right with this Chris Brown boy.

As reports are leaking slowly–not unlike festering herpes sores–more details are emerging about the series of events that caused the light-skinted Joanie and Chachie to miss last night’s gramophone awards. By the S.L.U. performance/baby delivery, we’d known Rihanna had gotten her swerve on (in the vehicular sense) and that Breezy had to Wayne Brady a bitch.

However, it wasn’t until this morning that the bored hoodrat blogs got wind of the fact that Rihanna’s name is on the police report and that Breezy got to throwin the hands over a sore that he could have gotten from any one of his fitty-leven jumpoffs. It just so happened that the one in front of him was glowing red and crusting over.

[Blogger’s Note: If it emerges that he whooped on her because he actually forgot to apply the Proactiv daily treatment in hurried anticipation of a Grammy performance, that’d be bout some shit.]

As domestic abuse from punk-ass niggas always has an indignant rant attached, I wonder what Brown’s sounded like.


“Look at us, you nasty little rasclat! We look like fucking Thai prostitutes! Bitch, we can’t hit the carpet and perform looking like this? At least when I did my little shit I wrapped my shit up and threw down the no-head rule! How you out there givin niggas headpiece and bringin that back to me? Fuck this. What did the five fingers say to the forehead?”

If you read the above jackassery and pump your fists in support of ye olde corporal punishment, please be advised that getting the stanky lipp is a two-person process. You’ve gotta be done dove in that Golden Krust face-first to come away with a badge of honor like that. Sure she’s been doin da skanky legg, but Breezy’s the one that decided it a good call to learn her damn dance.

Breezy very well may have brought the nastiness in question on himself anyways. According to the finest news sources the Mo’Niques of the world have to offer, Brown’s been running around like he’s related to Bobby. Apparently both he and Ree-Ree have been throwing the thug lovin around in the odd moments they’ve been apart.

Giving the full benefit of doubt allowable to a cheatin-ass nigga who wants to come home putting flags on shit, often times a statement about self is made when the woman you chose burns you. While getting burnt can happen to anyone, it’s you who chose to kick it long term with someone who would A) cheat on you with a herpeface and B) knowingly Ron Mexico that ass with the Mike Vick Sunday Night Special.

All herpetic justification aside, if ever in the history of high-yellow celebrity niggadom has been a nigga less fit for the box than Chris Breezy, I haven’t met him. Prince, Morris Day, the mulatto dude from Tales From the Hood and Leona Lewis would all likely do better than Brown in lockup. Even Christopher “Kid” Reid rapped his way out of a health inspection (see: Class Act… I mean, House Party. I’ve been enlightened). However, when them boys in the bing find out that not only is a sweet-ass touchdown like Chris Brown joining them, but that he’s doing so for beating up on someone they’ve likely masturbated to for the past couple years, shit’s gonna get real ugly real fast. There won’t be any singing or dancing his way out of that shit.

I shudder to think.

Also, in my daily dose of schadenfreude, I do hope to see some advertising world reciprocity. Michael Phelps done lost his cereal money after getting caught training for the WorldStar Smoke-a-Thon. I sure do hope I don’t have to see that fucking Doublemint gum commercial anymore after Young Breezy goes full-Rick James on his broad.

Nigga finna be doin some cigarette commercials in a minute. I hear Newport is just as good as money and almost as good as booty. Good luck dancing circles around Fleece Johnson.

Questions? Comments? Requests? They don’t know that’s attractive to me. ron@ronmexicocity.com

Negroes, please don’t smack your bitches up. Even if you get burnt. You’ll only be doubly so.

P.S.: I didn’t say “Ike Turner” not once. Hells yea. Fuck a cliche.

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